A short story by Martin DoddExcept for one other couple, Bubba and Birdie were the only customers in Hungry Harv’s Hash House. Bubba thought Birdie was cute enough; the nose ring made her sort of exotic, and she’d been around: Georgian by birth, Floridian by choice.

But Bubba Turnipseed was bored. Three weeks with Birdie had set a record. Once they said, “Thank you, Jesus,” or some orgasmic equivalent, the thrill was gone. It’s hunting, not having, that revs the engine.

Bubba deftly forked a bite of grits into his mouth. He wiped his chin for missings and chewed slowly for effect, having practiced the look in the restroom mirror at the truck stop. The bandana and a week’s growth of beard on his dimpled cheeks completed his attempt at a young Willie Nelson look.

He thought, no use paying for dessert, so over half-eaten ham steak, Bubba blurted, “Bad news, Birdie, it just ain’t fun anymore.” She blinked once, then hit him between the eyes with a honey-dipped corn muffin.

The ensuing scene was messier than some, shorter than others, and louder than most. Finally, Birdie flew the coop hollering curses over her shoulder, which was tolerable. He hated the blubbery ones that leeched onto him until he peeled them off at their trailers or mama’s place. Tomorrow he’d box up Birdie’s belongings and mail ‘em to her. He learned early to duck second rounds when they picked up their jammies, toothbrushes, and bite-guards.

While Bubba licked the sticky off his bandana, Harv came puffing toward him, carrying the bill, with a look on his face that would spook an alligator. “Why do ya bring your squeezes in my place to dump ‘em?”

Bubba smiled. “Sort of a tradition.” He didn’t add: Your greasy spoon has few customers to witness, the food’s cheap, and it’s only a block from a bus stop.

Harv growled, “Well it ain’t nice, an’ this one ’bout caused me a pers’nel problem. Yer ex-lady’s cousin is my cook.”

“Who’s that?”

“Cannon Ball Mudderly, thass who. You know him, doncha?”
Bubba peeked around Harv and saw the aforementioned glowering at him through the pass-through slot. Bubba waved his hand. Cannon Ball waved a meat cleaver.

Bubba said, “I thought he was with the circus. How’d he get to be a cook?”

“He wuz zonked on acid and doubled-charged his cannon at a kiddies’ mat’nee. He overshot the net some distance and landed atop a popcorn wagon. Good thang he’d married the gypsy fortune teller. She taught ‘im cookin’. Whips up a helluva goulash.”

“I’ll pass.” Bubba looked at the bill and handed a twenty to Harv.

Harv squinted at him. “Whut in twelve acres do these gals see in you, anyway?”

“Not looks, Harv, and it cain’t be money… must be my big ol’ diddlesnake.”

Leaning close, Harv said, “If I wuz you, I’d change my ways, elsewise there’s hell to pay. An’ take yer pers’nal messes sommer’s else. I’ll bring yer change.”

In a few minutes, Harv returned with a buck and a half in dimes and a bite-sized cake with a slip of paper sticking out of it. “Here’s yer change and yer fortune cake.”
“Fortune cake?”

“Yep, Panda Express is gonna open up down the street. We’re beatin’ ‘em to the punch. Panda’s cookies are store-bought. Our cakes are special-made by a gen-u-wine fortune teller, that bein’ the Cannon Ball’s missus.”

Bubba took the paper slip from the cake and read: “Adventure and fortune await-25n 70w.” He snorted. “What’s so special?”

“It’ll come true. Eat it.”

Bubba held up the slip of paper. “You mean this thing?”

“Yeah, eat it.”

What the hell, he thought, adventure and fortune. He put the paper in his mouth and was surprised that before he could moisten it into a tight lump to swallow, it dissolved, at first incredibly sweet, then a deeply bitter after-taste.

“Damn.” He chased it with sweet tea. “That tastes like shit.”

Harv smiled. “Wouldn’t know ’bout that.”
* * *
Bubba struggled to emerge from a deep sleep. God Almighty, I’m tore up. Six or seven long-necked empties crowded the night table. Saturday? Monday? No, Sunday. His head hurt and he felt as if he were swimming in molasses. Moments trudged by, frame by frame. A trip to the beach’ll help…look for the next gal. Just another twenty winks…zzzz. No! Adventure and fortune await! Bubba jumped up like a spirit-moved sinner at an altar call. Okay, Missus Cannon Ball, let’s test your magic!

* * *
Bubba whipped his pride-wheels, a 1970 Chevy CST 4 x 4, out of the mobile home and RV park and drove a quick mile to Jacksonville Beach’s Oceanfront Park. The ride was unusually smooth, as if gliding in air.

The white sand shimmered in the sun. He felt special in his aviator sunglasses, new Hooters T-shirt, and Speedo briefs. Bikinied beach-bunnies gazed admiringly as he passed. He had the sensation of flashbulbs lighting his way. Bubba grinned and nodded to the babes as he strutted across the strand and into the water.

The gently rolling waves ebbed and flowed up to his knees. The water was warm, the sun hot. He felt light-headed, almost giddy. For a moment the horizon tilted, and then his right foot struck something hard. Bubba reached down and pulled a bottle free from the sandy bottom. He held it up and wiped off the oozy grit. There was a rolled paper inside! The tingling that started in his toes worked its way upward and oscillated in his testicles. He bent forward with his back to the beach and, using his body as a shield, hid the find under his shirt.

Bubba giggled like a kid as he scurried to his truck. A message in a bottle! Adventure! He worked the cork out and unrolled the paper. There was a crude drawing of an oval-shaped island. A red “X” marked the center. The only inscription was: 25n latitude 70w longitude. 25n 70w! Pirate treasure! Fortune! And it’s gonna be mine!

Imagining a chest of gold and jewels, Bubba took out for the Palm Cove Marina where he searched the nav maps for 25n 70w. There! East of Nassau, south of Bermuda, north of San Juan, Puerto Rico. There was no land shown, but he knew there are tiny specks all over the world that don’t show up on maps. God knows, a peck of ships musta been boarded, looted, and scuttled in unknown places by pirates. And, heck, I worked shrimping outta Mayport for two summers. I can handle the ocean.

In a dizzying whirl, Bubba brushed up on navigational skills, sold his 1982 Prowler Lite 18′ travel trailer (but not his truck), and rented a fully provisioned 40′ Topaz Express from a coke-broke sport-fishing guide on Eleuthera in the Bahamas. It all seemed a dream: a four hour, one-stop, flight from JAX to Nassau, then a two-hour catamaran ferry to Eleuthera’s Harbor Island, an overnight stay, then a dawn cast-off (with extra fuel), and head close to due east for thirteen hours to 25n 70w, and riches.

* * *
When Bubba neared his destination, the sun was low on the horizon behind him. He could see no land, and the GPS screen showed nothing, but with a stationary blip on the radar, he was sure it was there.

A sudden, dark-clouded storm blew out of nowhere. Tossing waves buffeted the boat and a sheet of rain covered the windshield, blinding his view. Jesus, don’t wanna smack-up on a reef. Bubba set the auto-pilot, stepped back into the tempest, and peered around the starboard helm enclosure. The boat abruptly yawed and spun, as if caught in a vortex.
The spinning increased, tearing loose his grip, and then slam-stopped, almost throwing him overboard. Next to the boat, the water bubbled, frothed, and then gushed upward. A long serpentine form reared up. He could only see a slit of a mouth in its head as it swooped toward him. He tumbled backward, hitting his head, and then rolled into the water.
Sucked under, Bubba sank deep, his lungs bursting for air. In seconds, Eurydice Turnipseed’s only boy ceased struggling, took a deep breath and vanished.

* * *
Lieutenant Shore and a uniformed officer of the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office stood beside the tub looking down at the pasty-white, naked Bubba lying under the water.
Shore shook his head. “Damn shame, Sergeant. Young fella.”
The other man responded, “You think there’s any significance to the ‘Sweet’ and ‘Butter’ tattooed over his nipples?”

“Could be a swish.”

“Don’t think so. Ex-galfriend came by to get her stuff and found him like this. The shower was on, too. What a mess.”

“Anything else?”

“A pad full of scribblings on airlines, ferries, and fishing boats by his phone with a notation ‘25n 70w’ circled.”

“Sounds like map coordinates.”

“If so, they’d be smack in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle.”

“The girlfriend offer anything?”

“Said they broke up last night. You think suicide?”

The Lieutenant reached into the water and pulled out a clump of dark green vegetation. He shifted hands and touched his wet fingertips to his tongue. “Maybe. But why the seaweed and salt water?”

* * *
Martin Dodd joined a writers group at age 67 in 2002. Since then he has been published in The Barmaid, The Bean Counter, And The Bungee Jumper; Chicken Soup For The Recovering Soul; Homestead Review, Hobart Journal (web), Cadillac Cicatrix, Holy Cuspidor, and Writers Weekly. He has also won awards, or been a finalist, in contests of St. Louis Short Story, Writer’s Digest, Inkwell, and Glimmer Train. Martin can be reached at gopumps@aol.com (but hurry, at his age he doesn’t buy green bananas).